The Angel
by TrueImmortality
Summary: The pair of feet stopped, directly in front of me. He must have droppped something, I thought indifferently. But that must not have been the case, because the feet didn't resume their long stride. He just stood there. Why was he standing still, and right


Author's Note: Sorry about the odd spacing in this document. I don't know what happened. I hope you enjoy the story, though-- it's almost a Christmas tale. A little out of season, I know. :)

**The Angel**

** Jasper's Good Deed**

I dropped my tote bag on the sidewalk and sank down onto the pavement, exhaustion threatening to pull me under right there on the side of the street. And wouldn't _that _have been flattering, passing out like a drunk on the curb? I held my head in my hands; I didn't care. Who cared what anyone else thought? Nothing mattered anymore, nothing but the cold, hard truth.

I had nowhere else to hide.

Oh, I was very good at _pretending_ I had some meaning, some purpose in life. All the people at work thought I had it together, because I never missed a day out of the year, not even on Christmas. And I went to school, to a community college in this big, wretched city of Seattle. Again, the teachers and students there thought I had a life. Or maybe they didn't—how could someone show up for every class period and have a social life?

Whatever. Whatever they thought they saw, it wasn't the real thing. It didn't matter what my boss—

But wait. I no longer _had_ a boss.

I sighed, dragging my bag towards me and rummaging through it for the little slip of paper that had wrecked my pretense of stability. My notice, the notice my boss had given me that morning.

When he'd called me into his office, I hadn't suspected anything out of the ordinary. Sometimes Mr. Harding—my boss—summoned his workers to hand them a new schedule. But that was certainly not what he handed me today.

"I'm sorry, Elise." To his credit, Mr. Harding did look regretful. "But we just can't support so many workers."

I'd sat in the chair opposite him, holding the paper in my numb hands. "But—why are you firing _me_?" The implication had been: _why me? I come to work every day. Why my job?_

"You're a great worker. Excellent, in fact. But, your job just isn't necessary to this restaurant. I'll give you your next paycheck, I promise."

What else could I say? I couldn't change his mind. So I'd just gotten up, put the paper in my bag, and walked out.

Of course, I knew that wasn't the only job in the entire city of Seattle. I knew that. With my work ethic, there wouldn't be any trouble getting a new occupation.

It wouldn't have been such a blow if I hadn't have dropped all my classes at college to start working full-time at the restaurant. Now, not only was my income shot, my GPA was, too. Perfect.

Breathing in deeply, I realized I was quickly becoming icy cold on the sidewalk, the winter sludge that always piled up this time of year seeping into my boots. The long brown coat I was wearing insulated me somewhat, but not enough to knock the chill off. I laid my head on my arms, drawing my knees up to my chest and resting my arms there. The flimsy scarf around my neck hung down onto the ground, its end wet and dirty.

Ever since my parents died two years ago, life had gone from horrific to not much of a life at all. I went through the days in a stupor, going through the motions. The minute I stepped away from my dad's casket, my heart had shut down. It was like I'd entered one of those badly-filmed black and white movies, or a boring dream. I hadn't woken up from the dream yet.

__

Wake up, Elise,

I had told myself over and over._ Face up to the pain_.

But I couldn't shake myself up; I couldn't stand the piercing sorrow that filled me when I remembered my mom and dad. Someday, I would get over their deaths. Right now, I had to survive getting a new job.

"I can't," I moaned, staring through my fingers at the bright red and green signs in the store windows across the street. How could I move on? I was having trouble hauling my body off the sidewalk. Snow would be a good motivator, because even in this desperate state I didn't think I would sit still while I got buried in snow. Of course, I couldn't be sure-- I'd endured a lot in the last eighteen months.

Somewhere down the lane, a trendy boutique was playing an upbeat version of "Deck the Halls". I blinked. It was Christmas, wasn't it? My least favorite time of the year. There were too many memories about Christmas that hurt me. After all, it had been Mom's pet peeve to decorate the tree just before Christmas Day, and to have the same kind of turkey every year for dinner...

I shut my eyes, swallowing back the lump in my throat. I still missed them, every day, every minute.

Most people got past the grieving process after a few months, but I guess because I never really grieved my emotions were permanently stuck in the early stages of mourning. After two years, you'd think I'd be able to smile when I thought of the Christmases I'd shared with my parents. Instead I had this hollow ache where my heart should have been, a pain that was spreading into my other body parts. My arms wrapped around my knees hurt, then my legs.

Somehow, no one had ever asked me if I was okay with my mom and dad's deaths. I had relatives, but they lived far away and couldn't leave their own lives to bolster me up. My parents' friends helped me if they could, but their help came sporadoically in the form of cards or small amounts of cash, not comfort or kind words. And I shouldn't want consolation. I was nineteen years old, for heaven's sake, I thought angrily. I didn't _need _anyone's pity.

But I did. I _did _need a shoulder to cry on, very badly.

There wasn't anybody there, though. Nobody knew how wounded I still was, and I accepted full responsibility for that. If I had let someone know the first second I'd felt numb inside, I could have gotten help. Now it was too late for counseling, or hugging, or whatever it is that alleviates a mourner's pain.

What was I going to do?

I scrubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, ashamed at the tears forming. I couldn't cry in public, not like this. I had to get home to my apartment and surrender my last paycheck to my landlord. Then I had to surf the internet for job ads, or apply for welfare, which I might have to do anyway if I didn't get a job immediately.

Even though my mind was telling me these things, my body didn't move. Alarm made me frown; was I losing it for real? Had I just decided to sit on this street corner till I froze to death? _Sounds good to me_, I thought bleakly. _What else am I going to do? Grin and bear it?_

For the first time since I sat down I noticed the people walking by, staring at me. Some of them looked nervous, like they were scared I was an escaped asylum patient. Others cast me concerned glances, probably wondering if I needed help. Still more just walked on by, not paying attention to me at all.

I stared at the feet moving in the street, my feelings morose. How nice for these shopppers, that they had somewhere to go, to their families and friends, or boyfriends and girlfriends. I'd never had a boyfriend, and never wanted one, but as I watched the couples strolling down the sidewalks, I wondered if I'd missed out on a very good thing. Would a boyfriend make my pain easier or harder to deal with?

Oh well, my thoughts were just idle speculation. Guys hadn't shown much interest in me. I was too pretty for my own good-- boys only wanted to look at me, not get to know me. Correction: I had _been_ pretty, before the funeral. Now my appearance was akin to a smoker's.

I bowed my head again, my hair falling in chunks through my fingers. Had anyone in the history of Washington, no, in the history of America, been more alone than I was now? Not likely.

Crying silently, shivering as the tears cooled on my face, I dimly heard the voices of the people passing in front of me. Most of the phrases were happily mundane. Normality: something I longed for. 

"Honey, let's set up the tree tonight?"

"All right, baby. You want the kids to help with that?"

"Oh, dude! We so need to put that in our next podcast!"

"Yeah, totally! That's an awesome idea, Anna.

"...and Eva said she'd like that little set of napkin rings in the store at the mall, remember?...."

"I've got a lot to do today. Jean likes to have the house all nice for guests, you know."

"..._never _gonna get all this stuff done!"

"It's okay, sweetie, Mommy will get you a new one."

Amid the rushing steps and mixed voices, I heard one conversation clearly. The pair of feet I assumed the voices belonged to were walking less than a foot from me.

"Look at that, Jasper. Esme would like that, for the front door, you know the one she had last year looked a lot like that."

"We're supposed to pick up the watch for Carlisle, Alice. Focus."

"It'll take me ten minutes to fetch the watch. You buy the wreath, then wait here."

"If you think so. But I'd rather get out of here quickly."

"Don't be such a Scrooge." The woman's voice was getting farther away.

The man's voice chuckled. "Bah, hum--"

The pair of feet stopped, directly in front of me. He must have droppped something, I thought indifferently. But that must not have been the case, because the feet didn't resume their long stride. He just stood there. Why was he standing still, and right in front of me?

Anxious, I lifted my face to look at him.

It was all I could do not to gape.

The man looked to be about my age, only the main difference was he was too astounding for words, and I looked like I'd been pulled backwards through a shrub. Tall and muscular, this man had a body most college-age guys would kill to obtain. Not to mention he was dressed in up-scale clothes that without a doubt cost more than my last paycheck. He was blonde, with skin to match his hair. He was so pale he was almost white, and his fair coloring accentuated the dark circles under his eyes. And his _eyes_. They were the strangest shade of brown I'd ever seen, more like a light amber, set in incredible bone structure. His eyes were mesmerizing.

Even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't look away.

He was staring straight at me, his beautiful face full of an expression I didn't understand. It was a blend of intensity, shock, and deepest anguish. And, to my astonishment, pity.

How could this complete stranger, especially _this_ stranger, feel pity for_ me_?

My hands twisted in my lap, expressing my discomfort with the stranger's stare. He continued to gaze at me, oblivious to my disbelief. We remained like that, a wintry tableau, for several breath-taking moments, while all around us the activity of Christmas Eve went on. Finally, he seemed to realize how eccentric his behavior was. "I--I am sorry," he said, his breath coming out in soft clouds. "I'm really, terribly sorry."

Maybe he was just apologizing for acting so odd. That would be what most people did, try to be as polite as possible after they creep someone out. But that didn't stop the tears from pouring out of my eyes. The way he'd said it made me think of all the nights when I'd wished for just one person to tell me they were sorry my parents had died, and mean it.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, around the sobs in my chest, "but--" I couldn't say anymore.

Embarassed, I searched frantically for a tissue as I cried. The man hastily pulled out his own handkerchief and offered it to me, and it felt like a wave of reassurance came with the cloth.

"Thank you," I gasped, and buried my face in the stiff white square.

I could speak in a few minutes, calming down enough to do more than try to breathe. And he was still there, the unbelievably gorgeous man with his unbelievable kindness.

I sighed. "I think I ruined your handkerchief."

"Don't worry about it. I have more." He smiled fractionally. My breath hitched in my throat.

"Thank you so much. I--I don't know--" It was so weird, and hard to explain. "Just, when you--you see," I decided to start from the beginning, "my parents died a couple years ago, and, well, I just feel so horrible this time of year. Christmas was Mom's favorite holiday. It's just so hard." I sniffed; I was _going_ to get through this speech. "And when you said you were sorry--I don't know...it just made it all come unglued." I smiled too, hoping I wasn't scaring him.

The beautiful man said nothing, but the sympathy in his eyes almost sent me into another convulsion of sobs. I looked down, struggling to form coherent words, something to prevent him from going away with the understanding that I was clinically rude and insane.

Unfortunately, I didn't have time to reorganize my thoughts. A long white hand flashed into my vision, dropping a sizeable number of green bills into my lap. The one folded in half on the outside was a fifty. "Oh, no--" I began, but he cut me off.

"Please. Take it." His amber eyes were earnest.

"But I can't--"

"I have more." He grinned suddenly, but the smile faded as soon as it came. Turning, he moved his feet to start walking. Then he hesitated. "Do take it. And...don't be afraid. You will live through this." He sounded like he didn't say those kind of dramatic things often, as if he felt awkward.

The next thing I knew, he was gone, lost in the crowds of Christmas shoppers. He was gone in a flash, just like the pain in my heart. Where was the agony I'd felt earlier? It was like the man had taken it away with him, blowing it into the wind.

How could I ever be grateful enough for what that man did for me?

Tremulously, I wiped my eyes and flipped open the wad of bills. I couldn't believe what I saw. Did they really still _make _bills these large? In a state of incredulity, I counted out the numbers. Five hundred, one thousand, two thousand, three thousand and fifty...

Five thousand. I had five thousand dollars sitting in my lap.

I was choking up once more.

"Thank you," I whispered, to the snow falling gently onto my head.

My rent, my groceries for the week--for the _month_-- and who knew what else, all paid off. How rich _was_ that man? To whom had I just spilled my heart out? A millionaire, or a millionaire's son? A famous actor, maybe? I hadn't recognized him, though I would never, as long as I lived, forget his face.

His beautiful face.

The face of an angel.


End file.
